Killing Floor - The Legend of Sgt Powers
by xmodius
Summary: Heroes get remembered, but legends never die. From the ashes of hell, burn the brightest stars.


_07/01/2014 _

_A/N: For those who are a fan of my writing, I apologize in advance. This is not really anything new. I've taken part of another story I'd written and put it here because I'm "testing the waters" for the fan base of Killing Floor. With less than 20 stories in total, I can't imagine anyone who's not a fan of my writing will even bother reading this. Its a short drabble, and I may expand upon it more, though I'm not sure yet._

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_"Heroes get remembered, but legends never die." _  
_– The Sandlot, 1993_

Human beings are never truly happy.

How can we be? When we judge the worth of others based on the trials and tribulations they've endured. Heroes are those who have fought the fight; who have braved what others could not. We never make heroes of the people who live a good, happy, simple life. We never admire them. Or pay our fair tribute.

If anything, we envy them. Even loathe them.

We are animals to our core. In fact we're worse. We admire power, strength, and the ability to conquer. We do not respect the weak, and we fear the strong. It's a shameful state that humanity lives in, typically never admitting to this openly. Many deny this nature; claiming to hide it behind the guise of "civilization." Only those truly in touch with themselves know how terrible, how primal, we really are.

And only in secret does this darkness of ours give birth to what will be our downfall.

Horzine, Inc. was… is the spawn of humanity's worst traits. Their desire to achieve ultimate power led to the state of destruction the world faces today. In an attempt to create the ultimate cloned soldiers, they had instead unleashed a hell upon the earth that consumes the good, happy, simple people, and makes jaded veterans out of those strong enough to survive. The world has changed.

Those that survive this change are considered heroes.

And those who embrace it, become legends.

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"Christ could this bloody day git any worse?" Sgt. Powers bellowed in his cockney British accent as he raced down another side street in his mini cooper, a car far too small for his frame, and barely a fit for his meager salary. The Horzine bio-tech research company had finally done it. They specialized in cloning technology and weapons of warfare, but no one knew they were trying to combine the two to make the ultimate army. Their practices always skirted the lines of legality and had long since plunged off the deep end of morality, but they'd finally done it. They'd opened the mouth of hell, and Britain was teetering on the precipice of destruction's maw. Horzine had created monsters, literally. An outbreak occurred at the main research facility hidden in the countryside, and "specimens" were swarming over London and the surrounding area. The freaks were of various shapes and sizes, a bloody marriage of cloned human forms merged with destructive hardware. The "specimens" were overrunning London, a trail of blood and fire in their wake, but hopefully they hadn't reached his block yet.

He had to hurry. His wife and kids were priority number one. The UKSF could do without him for a day or two once his wife and kids were relocated with relatives in the countryside. Once that was done, he would return to his post. Though he'd probably get brought up on desertion charges, he knew his superior officers would overlook it because he was one of the best.

He pulled up to his flat in the less trashy side of West London, almost forgetting to throw the car into "Park" as he threw the door open and sprinted to the front steps, removing his standard 9mm from his belt holster as he rapidly approached the front door; a solid oak door that was ripped from the hinges and splattered in a crimson liquid.

Sgt. Powers beheld a horrifying sight as he entered his home. Arms and legs of varying sizes, bloody and almost completely unrecognizable were jammed into the front door. The metallic smell of blood and the odor of rotting meat filled his nostrils, threatening to bring up his breakfast. As he passed through the foyer he saw blood splattered on the walls, glass broken, furniture tipped over, and a large bloody smear leading up the stairs to the second floor.

Aside from the thudding of his heart in his ears, he could hear a faint gurgling sound coming from upstairs.

The sergeant raced up the steps two at a time, pistol in hand as his adrenaline surged. He expected to find some deranged lunatic or a desperate burglar when he burst through the door of the master bedroom, but what he found instead would forever haunt his memory, denying him sleep when he wanted it, but fueling his combat rage when he needed it.

Standing on the other side of his bloodied marital bed was a lanky-looking creature that was only vaguely humanoid. It stood upright on two legs and had two arms, though the left arm was actually just a short stump that stopped above the elbow, while the right arm had what looked like two hands growing back to back out of the end of the wrist, and tied to that mangled arm was a four foot, flat-ended, machete-like blade with a sharp claw jutting off the side at the end. The creature had no skin either, showing only the muscles that would be otherwise hidden, a bright red color though they didn't bleed. Its head was the only part that seemed to have a sort of epidermis, and it was missing the lower jaw.

And the creature hadn't noticed the stunned soldier's presence, it was too busy hacking its bloody blade into the torso of the soldier's wife and two kids. It gurgled and grumbled, involved in desecrating its kills as blood and entrails flew out in ropes every time it raised its blade to strike again. A string of guts flew off its blade onto the stunned soldier's face.

Sgt. Powers' eye twitched as the last string of his sanity snapped. The man that was once whole and complete had shattered into fragments of insanity and rage. Powers had lost a part of himself. A gaping void manifested within his soul, giving birth to a horrifying darkness that threatened to consume him. The text book definition of an inner demon, if there ever was one.

The burly sergeant causally holstered his pistol, and suddenly found himself casually talking, in a voice that sounded haunting and unfamiliar, to the creature that was practically bathing in his family's blood.

"You've been out in th' sun too long, govnah!" He said, cocking his untwitching eye. "Yer red as 'n apple!"

The creature stopped its act of desecration and looked up, beady eyes narrowing at the new prey. It gurgled and raised its bloodied blade, charging the burly man with surprising speed. The sergeant barely had a chance to duck out the door before the massive blade swiped the air twice where he once stood. The freak almost took his head off, but had sent itself off balance with its zeal.

Powers was a true soldier, one with years of hard training. So it was on instinct the way he pushed aside the gruesome sight that was once his family to take his enemy off guard. The large man threw himself at the off-kilter assassin, knocking it straight to the floor. The creature struggled mindlessly, but the sergeant's weight was too much to simply throw off as he straddled his victim. The thing didn't even show fear or pain when the sergeant grabbed its bladed arm and broke it at the elbow.

"Jeezus, mind that fucking great blade! Yer gonna 'urt someone if y'ain't careful!" He said, ripping the blade free of the coarse rope that tied it to the freak's single arm. With both hands and a laugh of mirthful insanity, the demon in control of Sergeant Powers thrust the blade down width-wise like a makeshift guillotine, chopping the creature's head right off and embedding the blade into the floor. The headless creature continued to struggle and twitch like a chicken with its head cut off, and Powers laughed insanely as he yanked the blade free and proceeded to eviscerate the freak beneath him, plunging his gloved hands into the freak's chest after slicing it from stem to stern. He ripped and tore at the muscle and sinew, tossing pieces of it aside with a glee the way the creature surely had when it decimated his wife and children.

Powers never even noticed the long cut that ran diagonally up one cheek, crossing over the bridge of his nose before tapering off near the top of his forehead, until a trickle of blood ran from the wound into his eye, the stinging pain cutting off his insane fit. He blinked in sudden surprise before realizing what it was; the creature's swipe was closer than he thought. He blinked again, looking over his bloodied hands; hands that were no longer his own. He held the creature's crooked, torn finger in one and its heart in the other. His demon's blood lust was not sated just yet. It whispered the unthinkable from the darkness in Powers' mind, and the other side of the soldier's sanity screamed in protest when he finally acquiesced to the voice of madness.

Sergeant Powers casually pocketed the finger, then bit into the heart like a squishy, bleeding apple, blood dribbling down his chin. He chewed twice, then spat out the chunk on the creature's lifeless face.

"Too sweet for my taste," he mumbled, wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he stood. And for a long while all he did was glare down at his kill, staring into the gruesome remains of what had ended his life as a family man.

Part of his fragmented mind reminded him that time was not on his side, urging him to his small supply locker in the bedroom. He'd kept a gas mask in there for emergencies, which he promptly fitted over his face, securing and tightening the straps over his head.

Next he took a katana off the bedroom wall, a treasured melee weapon he'd acquired while stationed in Japan. The sergeant felt a personal pride in the sense of close combat, and held a deep admiration for the samurai warriors of ages past. Any fool could fire a gun, but it took true skill to go toe to toe with one's enemy. This katana was not a simple reproduction, but the genuine article. The blade gleamed with perfection, blessings in Kanji marked up its length.

After fitting the blade and its sheath over his shoulder, he retrieved two Israeli Desert Eagles that were safely tucked behind the top drawers of his wife's dresser. The two .50 caliber hand guns had enough kick to send an ordinary man rocking on his heels from firing just one with both hands, but Powers massive frame barely rocked when he drew them akimbo. He was quite proud of the fact that he could dual-wield them, always impressing his friends at the shooting range. Sgt. Powers loved his weapons, and every time he squeezed himself into his tiny car, he reminded himself that the tight ride was worth it to own not one, but two hand cannons.

His armament completed, he pocketed all the ammo he could carry and exited the bedroom, heading down the stairs. Outside, the sounds of terror and mayhem echoed over the city, growing louder as he exited the flat. He watched a young woman running for her life as some naked humanoid creature, devoid of any body hair and lacking genitalia, shambled after her. Two well placed shots from his twin hand cannons send the freak flat on its back. He casually approached the twitching form, drawing his katana in one fluid motion and sliced the creature's head from its shoulders.

This time the demon within him didn't have to coax him at all. He set to work slicing a finger off one hand, and even headless the thing still tried to claw at the muscled sergeant. It struggled for a few seconds before a punctuating death rattle shook its body one last time before it lay still.

Powers pocketed his prize and looked at his reflection in the bloodied blade, an alien-looking face staring back with its gas mask. Everywhere he could hear the sounds of gunfire and cries of terror, dotted with the sickening sound of bone and flesh being broken and ripped.

Sergeant Jack Powers, the man who was once happily married, a proud father, and generally content with his life, was now an angry, childless, widower who was being drawn into the dark void of insanity. And as the blood continued to drip from his new face wound behind his gas mask, the only thing keeping him from completely losing himself was the new mission in his darkened soul.

Butcher every last one of Horzine's freaks!

But keep the fingers...


End file.
